“No map, no hotels, just vibes,” Joe grins, the camera catching the golden hour light bouncing off his sunglasses. He’s got one hand on the steering wheel, the other dangerously close to spilling his protein shake. “And I’ve brought a victim.”

“Passenger,” you correct, giving the lens a deadpan look. “Though ‘hostage’ feels more accurate.”

The road trip vlog had no script—just a vague idea that flipping a coin at every major junction would lead somewhere decent. It led, instead, to a half-abandoned seaside town where every shop closes at four and the seagulls have murder in their eyes.

Your phones are dying. You're both slightly sunburnt. Spirits? Weirdly high.

Joe pulls up outside a tiny B&B with peeling pastel shutters and a hand-painted sign that says: “Ocean Peace” — which is ironic because the place radiates feral energy.

Dot answers the door. Towering. Sharp brows. Red lipstick and house slippers. Russian accent so thick you feel like you’ve stepped into an international hostage negotiation.

“You two… couple, yes?” she says before either of you speak. Her eyes scan you both like a customs officer.

Joe blinks. “Uh, no. Just—”

“Of course you are couple,” she interrupts. “I see. You do matching laugh. He laugh—” she mimics Joe’s wheezy snort—“and then you laugh like little bird. Very in love.”

Your mouth opens to object, but she’s already swinging the door wider.

“One bed. Big one. Good for… closeness.” She winks. WINKS.

Joe whispers, “I’m scared.”

You whisper back, “You should be.”

She practically drags you inside. The house smells like lavender and mystery. Dot throws open a window dramatically. “Ocean view. For romance. Or argument. Both good for passion.”

Later, you’re in the room—massive floral duvet, one sad lamp, and Joe pacing like he’s in a hostage movie. “Mate… she just offered me vodka and fertility tea.”

“She told me the bed is good for producing strong children,” you reply, climbing onto it with a groan. “I think we’ve been adopted.”

Joe flops down beside you. “We can never leave.”

And yet—somehow, despite the sheer madness, you’re laughing. Sleep-deprived, salt-stained, and full of weirdly good corner shop biscuits. The vlog is mostly chaos, but Joe keeps the camera rolling through the ridiculousness. The banter. The look you both give each other when Dot stomps down the hall muttering about “grandbabies with nice jawlines.”